Having Wings Doesn't Mean You Can Fly
by blackstar2177
Summary: Ignoring something doesn't necessarily stop it. Oneshot. A crackfic, really.


**Just Because You Have Wings Doesn't Mean You Can Fly**

**A/N: Okay, so, I realize that I haven't updated either of my fics in like, two months, but I just haven't found the right inspiration for the next chapters. I hate writing when I'm not in the mood, but I want to get out of that, because I really like those story lines. This one is a complete crackfic, and I'm not sure where it came from, I just had the sudden urge to write it. With this one, it's a oneshot, but I was thinking about making a sequel to it or something, but I'm not sure, because I like how this ended. Well, you can let me know, because I'm not sure at this point. Anyways, Enjoy :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Mcfly in any way, shape, or form. They own themselves.  
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It began a while ago. They were touring, he felt sick. Sharp pains shot through his back, dominantly hovering at his shoulder blades. Sometimes he would press himself against a wall, and the pain escalated to great heights, the small pressure tackling him with suffocating strength. It almost felt as if there were two round bumps, against the wall, the sharp ends facing his back digging into his shoulder blades harshly.

He pretended not to notice. He pretended that he was fine, dismissing anyone who began to catch onto his hidden cringes, winces that he fought to push down. He forced himself into the mindset that _nothing was wrong_. Because whatever was causing the pain, he wouldn't let win over him. He never liked letting anyone or anything, for that matter, beat him. The trait could be his friend or enemy. He'd always favored against the latter.

It only got harder when it began affecting how he was playing. The pain tampered with his focus, clouding his mind and sabotaging his performance. Soon it was becoming so unbearable he had a hard time keeping up with songs, making what went from subtle to excruciatingly obvious mistakes.

When they would be done with rehearsal he would ignore the strange, concerned looks from the others and quickly make his way off the stage, arms held stiffly at his sides as he bit his tongue, trying to fend off the want to scream.

* * *

><p>He knew he couldn't keep this up for much longer; it was becoming apparent as people would glance at him often, eyes flitting over his tense body, observing his every move worriedly. He swatted the thought away as quickly as it would come. He refused to give into the temptation to just find out what was wrong with him. He didn't like giving in—to anything.<p>

Not giving in was becoming harder and harder as the days passed by, each one seeming to be going mockingly slower than the previous. Everything seemed to taunt him. He always remained quiet, his eyes always trained intensively downwards; he was finding his shoelaces very interesting lately.

He was afraid that if he would make eye contact with any of his band mates, he would lose concentration and cry out in pain. He couldn't let the pain win the battle. He was stronger than that, wasn't he?

If he was stronger than that, then why was he getting out of his seat on the couch in the tour bus? If he was stronger than that then why was he heading towards the bathroom? If he was stronger than that then why was he slowly taking his shirt off once he closed the door, cautious to the sharp prickling feeling he felt when he made this sort of movement with his arms? If he was stronger than that then why was he turning so that his back was facing the mirror, craning his neck so he could see past his shoulder?

* * *

><p>Everything seemed uncharacteristically quiet as the tour bus rode over the sloppily paved roads. Tension was rising as the curiosity seemed to consume the three boys that were unwantedly left in the dark as to what was wrong with their friend. It wasn't surprising that he wasn't letting them know what was up with him, as his pride always swallowed him up, creating a paper thin wall between him and the other three.<p>

Danny sighed, looking away from his magazine and letting his eyes travel from one band mate to the other, before another, louder sigh fell from his lips.

Tom looked up from his phone to throw a questioning look the Northerner's way. Danny shook his head a little, before saying quietly, "It's eating away at me, Tom." Dougie looked up at hearing the sudden noise, eager to create some sort of conversation after being victim to the torturous silence that had laid the air down thick for the past hour. "What are you talking about, Dan?" The Boltonian let out a tired breath, before saying, "This whole, not knowing thing. I want to know what's wrong with Harry, because something's obviously wrong, though I don't think he's willing to admit it to himself."

Danny was complicated in a way, with how his mind worked. Despite the fact that he was a bit dense, he was disturbingly observant when he wanted to be. He knew his best friends inside and out. He took care to remember what they'd said in the past, even if the detail didn't seem as if it was useful or important. He recalled their favorite foods, colors, movies, anything really because he felt the desire to personally know his band mates, because they were the people most important to him. He didn't bother to pay attention to much else, besides his music.

That was part of the reason it was having such a tight hold on Danny's attention, not knowing what was wrong with Harry. He hated the thought of not knowing. It was why he got so worked up whenever he couldn't remember something, no matter how pointless it was.

Tom set his phone beside him, letting a sigh of his own pass his lips quietly. "You know how he is, he doesn't care to let anyone know when something's wrong. He fights anything that could possible put a hole in his precious ego." Dougie nodded in agreement. "It is true, but, he needs to tell us sometime, or," The bassist was caught off by the jolting sound of a scream, shaking the bus madly as the startled boys on the couch shot up from their seats.

Danny's the first one to break out of the still shock at hearing the shriek, tossing his magazine on the floor and bolting in the direction of the bathroom. Tom and Dougie soon followed eyes wide as saucers and jaws hung slacked.

* * *

><p>Harry couldn't seem to keep his line of vision focused after his eyes landed on the reflection of what <em>looked<em> to be his back. Right on his shoulder blades were two, small black _wings._ At least, that was what they looked like. They were sort of like bony red tentacles, arching, their sides pressed against red, raw looking flesh that surrounded it. Silvery feathers, small and fragile-looking, hung loosely, as if they could be picked right off with no effort.

In the agonizingly short period of time he stood staring at them, all thoughts of not giving in and feigning ignorance vanished, replaced with cold, hateful fear. He did the only thing his paralyzed body could allow. He screamed.

Seconds later he heard the sound of Danny's voice on the other end, frantic with worry as he pounded against it, shouting panicked if he was alright.

Alright? Of course he wasn't alright! He had two _wings_ sprouting out his back! But, they couldn't be real. There was no possible way. How could they possibly be real? He wasn't a bird, and he didn't believe in mythical creatures. Humans _didn't grow wings_. They just didn't.

Denial set in as he shook his head, avoiding answering the shouts that were pounding against the door just as loudly the as the fists. He heard a slightly muffled, "Christ's sake, Harry! Open the door or answer us!" He called out, "I'm fine, I just, stubbed my toe." He locked the embarrassment of his pitiful excuse out of his mind and said reassuringly (more to himself than the guys) "Everything's okay, really. It's nothing to worry about!"

He knew they'd not forget about it so easily, but he decided to just listen to the reasoning inside his head that nothing was wrong. He was just imagining the things on his back. They weren't _actually_ there.

Once the muffled calls died out and Danny said cautiously, "Okay, if you're sure." Harry ran a hand through his hair and shook his head, laughing lowly at himself. He splashed some water on his face, before pulling his T-shirt back on. He looked at himself for a few moments in the mirror, before silently deciding that he could just go on ignoring them, because they _weren't really there_. He'd just take a few pain killers and everything would be fine.

Because after all, ignorance is bliss, right?


End file.
